


Meeting, Once Again

by Mooninmie



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: Fluff, Implied Homophobic Violence, M/M, Masquerade, One Shot, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slight Spoilers for Chapter 4, chapter 4, unedited, written very quickly so they may be out of character on accident sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:33:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24079801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mooninmie/pseuds/Mooninmie
Summary: A short one-shot of our two favorite boys.
Relationships: Albert Mason/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 3
Kudos: 58





	Meeting, Once Again

**Author's Note:**

> Ignore the weird title. Titles are definitely one of the hardest things for me to think of :,)

A thin, hot breeze ran through the crowded streets of Saint Denis, passing carelessly through the cramped alleyways, doing nothing to dampen the sweltering heat of the swamps. Arthur’s neck was sticky with a glistening layer of sweat, and his old leather hat did little to shelter him from the sun. 

Arthur raised his head up, his horse trotting along at an even pace, and he skimmed the sidewalks mindlessly. He had caught a glimpse of a bounty poster sometime during a ride through the city a few days ago, and was aiming to go collect that in hope of some extra cash. Shady Belle was far from ideal, and Arthur wished vaguely that they would be away from the wet heat of Lemoyne; it felt as though even his eyes were sweating. At least back in Valentine, the sweat dried, at some point. 

Arthur was pulled from his musings at the sight of a familiar straw hat, a strand of red wrapped around it, hunched over pathetically on one of the benches. He pulled gently on the reigns and his horse nickered curiously beneath him, but he paid it no mind. He carefully steered her to the side of the road, right along the sidewalk, and stopped her completely in front of the man with the straw hat.

Albert Mason glanced up, confused with the sudden figure in front of him. His brown hair was disheveled beneath the refuge of his hat and his honeyed eyes glimmered in the midday sunlight. He perked up immediately upon noticing who it was, taking off his hat and brushing his hair back self-consciously with his hand, before returning it to his head properly.

“Mister Morgan!” he grinned genuinely, lips parting just barely, a gleeful pinch in his eyes as the smile reached them. Arthur distractedly slipped off of the saddle of his horse, gathering her reins in his fist so she wouldn’t wander off, and he lifted his head, smiling guardedly, only to be met with a surprising sight. He raised his eyebrows, and Albert’s smile suddenly waned, and he dipped his chin shamefully. 

Arthur blinked, his eyebrows still high, making no effort to hide his surprise. “Mister Mason,” he began, humouring the man’s ever-so-polite mannerisms, “were you in a fight?” He asked it teasingly, a smirk pulling at the edge of his lips and slipping into his voice. 

Albert looked back up at Arthur, awkward and uncomfortable. There was a deep black and blue bruise-- or, a few bruises, really-- painting the right side of Albert’s face like stray brushstrokes from an angry painter. His lip was cracked noticeably, and it must’ve bled quite a bit when it was busted. Arthur frowned, all jesting fading instantly when he pried, “What happened?” His tone was uncharacteristically tender; careful, as though he were calming a skittish, frantic horse. So much so that he surprised even himself.

“Well, i-it-” Albert motioned erratically, and Arthur absently sat down on the bench, his horse’s reins still clutch tightly in his grasp. Albert looked at him, a tight smile on his face.

“It wasn’t much of a… fight, of sorts.” Albert’s fake grin fell and he suddenly leaned back, exhausted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “More of a beating,” he mumbled bitterly.

Arthur studied Albert for a second. “So you lost the fight, is what I’m hearing.”

Albert had it in him to give a wry chuckle, and Arthur was astonishingly proud of wrangling the little inkling of happiness out of Albert’s strained expression. “Yes,” he agreed, “I lost the fight.”

“Did you at least hit the bastard?” Arthur pondered aloud, gazing at Albert piercingly, and the photographer decided to stare at his own hand, instead. It was then that Arthur noticed the faint coloring along his knuckles; not nearly as bad as the bruises on his pale face, but it looked as though that whoever Albert had hit, he hit them hard. 

“Mm…” Albert brought his fist to his chest nursingly, rubbing it, as if he was remembering the impact of his punch. “Once,” he admitted. “But it was simply because I wanted him off of me-- The, well, the whole thing was my fault in the first place, but I was afraid he’d kill me if I couldn’t find a way out of there.”

Arthur’s expression contorted and tightened, frustrated. “Christ, Mason, what in the world could’ya have done to make a man that angry?” 

Albert opened and closed his mouth, wrestling with whether he should tell Arthur the truth or not. The whole truth. He cringed, suddenly, his face going red with embarrassment and shame, coloring from his neck to the tips of his ears. “I misjudged him,” he explained laxly. Not the whole truth, it was clear to Arthur, but it wasn’t a lie. Albert sighed dramatically, making an exaggerated, self-deprecating joke of his own situation. “I foolishly acted in a way he deemed… unsavory, and he was so offended at the way I had branded him that he would rather be a murderer than a man of such…” Albert paused, eyebrows knit together tightly, wrestling, once again, at what he should say. He stared up towards the sky and released a tired, throaty breath, and continued, “of such… of certain persuasions, I should say.” 

Albert turned to catch Arthur’s eyes in his own, Arthur’s heart beating fiercely in his chest. Albert stared expectantly at Arthur, his gold flecked eyes traveling plainly over his face, studying and memorizing with the same scrutinizing look he used during his photography. Arthur simply turned his face away, dipping down beneath the rim of his hat to hide the creeping flush of heat trickling into his cheeks, his eyes wide in realization.

There was a part of him that wished he could have been there to beat the man away. If Arthur was good for anything, he’s good for fighting, and he could have, without a shadow of a doubt, protected Albert. He was a brawler, and Albert was not (which was a good thing, but it didn’t exactly make for the easiest protection). He could have prevented those ugly, painful bruises, and kept him safe, the same he had out in the wilderness… of course, the world, in all its cruelty, resolved to keep their impromptu meeting until Albert was out and away from the danger. Not unscathed this time, unfortunately. 

But Arthur knew that it wasn’t his job to keep the bumbling photographer away from danger, and, even though there were a few raw marks to remind him of the experience, Albert had gotten away from the situation. He was a grown man who should be able to take care of himself, no matter how much he proved against it, but Arthur’s gut swirled anxiously whenever he imagined Albert getting hurt. Damn him and his stupidly lovable… everything. He made Arthur feel a fool, and Arthur feared that he was beginning to play the part of one, as well.

“Well, I’m real sorry to hear that, Mister Mason,” he mumbled blankly. “Seems like you ain’t exactly had the best week.”

“No,” Albert decided. “I haven’t.” He huffed out a weak laugh. “But, as I’ve said before,” he flourished his arms out theatrically, “men are, indeed, nature’s worst predator.”

“That you have.” Arthur’s horse clomped its hooves restlessly, and Arthur stood, patting its neck to soothe it. “Y’know,” he grunted, “I thought you’d gone on home. Back to New York, was it?”

Albert watched him, nodding silently. He confessed, “I was going to, but the photographs we took managed to gain some traction.” Arthur slighted his head, peering at Albert urgingly from beneath the brim of his black leather hat. Albert continued, “They’re on display, at a small gallery. I’ve been having showings and have, despite my unluckiness, been able to grab some attention towards the cause.” He beamed, becoming increasingly proud and excited as he went on, and Arthur ducked back towards his horse, brushing out her mane attentively.

“That’s mighty fine for you,” Arthur reckoned, shuffling his feet against the dusty cobblestone. Arthur noted that his voice sounded as though he was smiling-- it had been a long while since he’d been proud enough for such a thing to happen. He tucked the brush back into his saddlebag safely, turning on his heel to face Albert again, who was still sitting on the bench with his hands folded neatly in his lap. The two stared at one another silently, the heat baring down onto their hats, each waiting patiently for the other to say something.

Then, at the same time:

“Can I-”

“I wanted to-”

They both stopped, paused, and the silence danced its way between them once again. Arthur laughed a little, and Albert’s wide, genial grin, the same one he had adorned when Arthur first arrived in front of him on his horse, returned. 

“I’m sorry,” Albert apologized, ever the gentleman. “What were you going to say?”

Arthur wrung the reins tight around his hand and grabbed casually onto his gun belt, resting his weight on one leg. “I was just gonna ask if it’s alright if I come by sometime. Too see one of them showings you was talkin’ about?” He pinched his lips tightly and ducked his head, gazing expectantly, hopefully, at Albert through his eyelashes.

Albert’s smile morphed into a fond, appreciative curve, his eyes soft. “Of course,” he replied, as if it was a question that didn’t need answering in the first place. “I never would have been able to take the most of them without your help in the first place!” He exclaimed. “My knight in shining armour, come to rescue me, time and time again. I would be glad to have you there, Arthur.”

There was something about the way Albert said his name. It rolled off of his tongue easily, with a longingly familiar twinge to it, and Arthur’s chest bloomed with warmth. He nodded, licking his lips and rubbing against the stubble on his chin, blocking his mouth as he did so to cover the beaming expression that was so obvious.

“So,” Arthur steeled his face, forcing it back into the tough, tight mold. “What was you about to say, Mason?”

“Ah.” Albert bent forward bashfully, and Arthur noted amusingly that at least a third of their conversation seemed to be avoiding the other’s eyes. 

He felt peculiarly nervous, like he was back to being a bumbling kid, hardly older than 20, with Mary’s arm hooked through his. The shy, timid glances and flush of red he could feel filtering his cheeks whenever either of them said or did something that pushed that invisible boundary just a bit farther. He was much too old to be acting like a lovesick boy again, but that’s exactly the way he felt, and he couldn’t help but be both enthralled and alarmed at the fact that it was Albert Mason who affected him in such a way.

“I was simply wondering, if you would accompany me to an event a week or so from now?” Albert tilted his head sanguinely. “There is a man across town who hosts masquerades for some of the higher, eh, ‘esteemed’ people of Saint Denis. I’ve been invited. It’d be rude not to attend, and- I-I’m dreadfully afraid that I’d be bored to death.” 

Arthur smirked mischievously, his blue-green eyes glimmering. “You asking me to chaperone you, Mister Mason?”

“If you would, sir, then I suppose so.”

Arthur bit his lip, scraping the toe of his boot across the ground. “I hate to break it to ya, but I ain’t exactly high society,” he laughed.

Albert gave him a zealous look. “Is that so?” he hummed, his voice trilly and teasing.

Arthur squinted at him suspiciously, drawling, “Yes.”

“Well, I guess you must have a very convincing lookalike,” Albert gazed upwards, fakely rubbing his well-trimmed beard in thought. “Because I could have sworn that I saw a man who looked  _ just like you _ at the Mayor’s party not too long ago. He was dolled up in a fancy suit, bowtie and all.” Albert glanced over at Arthur’s dawning embarrassment. “Why, maybe he wasn’t exactly ‘high society’,” he emphasized the phrase sarcastically, “but he looked rather handsome.”

Arthur put his hand up, grunting. “Alright, alright,” he said gruffly. He interjected, “I didn’t know you were there.”

Albert shrugged innocently. “You see, I’m quick in making friends. It gets you places, sometimes.”

Arthur glanced pointedly at the healing bruises on the side of Albert’s face.

“That’s not without exceptions,” Albert added, and Arthur chuckled heartily.

“You shoulda come and said hello,” Arthur told him. “I woulda loved the interruption, if I’m being honest.”

“Your friends were a bit intimidating. I know when to keep my distance,” Albert answered. Arthur decided not to mention the fact that Albert had actively hunted down both wolves and alligators, yet he didn’t approach a friend because he thought the people he was with were intimidating. He then wondered when he had begun considering Albert a proper friend.

Arthur smiled, twisting around the reins in his hand, before nodding resolutely.

“You give me the time and address, Mason, and I’ll do my best to make it.”

Albert’s face lit up eagerly, the wide, loving grin returning. He wrote down the information on a piece of paper in a free, messy scrawl and handed it to Arthur, who thanked him. He swung himself up into his saddle, and with a tip of his hat and a friendly goodbye, he was off to finally do what he had been planning to get done that day.

The day of the masquerade, Arthur found himself arriving with Dutch and Hosea, the same he had at the mayor’s party. Dutch had even brought Molly along, who had adorned her best dress and jewelry for the occasion. In an unexpected turn of events, the group had-- once again-- been invited to join the high life of Saint Denis. Arthur thought vaguely that perhaps he was indeed, as Albert said, a gentleman, but he quickly suffocated that train of thought with a self-deprecating scoff.

Dutch gave clear instructions to be polite to the patrons and diligent in eavesdropping and small talk. They weren’t necessarily going to sniff out anything big here in terms of documents, but word-of-mouth could be just as effective, and it was important for them to keep up the charade of gentlemen as best they could until they could leave Shady Belle on their own terms.

Arthur was only listening to his voice as a backdrop, and was rather distracted by the uncomfortable way his suit pinched at his sides. It was the same one he had worn to the mayor’s party, but it didn’t fit any better; he felt that at a wrong move this way or that, it would tear at the seams, or a button would pop from his shirt. Of course, that was probably unlikely, he knew, but wearing loose fitting button-ups and vests his entire life, the constricting nature of a suit was something entirely unfound to him.

That wasn’t to mention the strange-feeling mask over the top half of his face. It was simple and bought last-minute: a smooth, wooden recreation of a buck, gifted to him by Hosea. There was little decoration, just a few easy carvings to add a little flare. Hosea said that it matched him. Why, Arthur couldn’t fathom, but he found that he wasn’t entirely unhappy with it, no matter how awkwardly it felt to wear.

The group split into different directions. Molly had her arm hooked through Dutch’s, and for once, the couple seemed happy to be together, but Arthur wasn’t sure if it was genuine reconciliation between them or if it was only the regal atmosphere of the place that smothered their never-ending bickering. He didn’t particularly care either way.

Arthur turned and gazed over the crowd attentively, his lips tense. How he was supposed to find Albert Mason in such a crowded place, with everybody’s face covered, he was completely at a loss. Resigned, he simply entered the crowd, moving and excitable like a rushing river, and hoped for the best.

The band played steadily somewhere in the room, the strings ringing out over the dancing couples and chatting patrons. In another room there were countless tables, covered neatly with white cloths, a large spread of over complicated food and fancy wine accompanying them. Hired, well-groomed and well-dressed butlers slipping through the bunches of people like water, offering tiny sandwiches and elegant champagne from trays held up by their gloved hands.

He hardly made any progress in eavesdropping, as Dutch had suggested, aside from the meager gossip that somehow made its way to him every now and then. Instead he spent the next 15 minutes or so searching through the crowd. He didn’t even know Saint Denis had so many wealthy snobs, their noses stuck up high and eyes judging from behind the safety of their masks, and he just wished that he could find Albert soon enough.

He eventually, after going in circles time and time ago, made his way to a more sparsely populated area of the venue. A few quiet guests whispered to one another in hushed conversation and the ensemble’s music was muffled and distant. A couple argued in the far corner, the woman giving her date a hissed earful as he boredly glanced around the room, obviously souped up with a little too much alcohol.

Arthur shook his head and sighed, peeking his head around the corner of an open doorway the room led to in one last attempt to locate the photographer. And, obviously, as if by design, it was only in this last room that he checked that he found Albert, sitting idly at a large piano, hiding away from the rest of the party. There was nobody else in the room.

Albert was wearing a skillfully crafted, white-painted mask that followed the curve of his face like a crescent moon. It was accentuated with a deep green, carefully painted and sculpted into swirling patterns, covering the faint bruises that no doubt still splotched parts of his pale skin. His hair was, for once, visible; combed back neatly and his beard was shorter than it was when Arthur last saw him. Recently trimmed. 

Albert glanced up to the new figure in the doorway and blinked in short disbelief, before awarding Arthur with that same, unadulteratedly joyful grin. There was a certain way that Albert smiled that made Arthur feel as though he were understood and safe-- that not a single thing could hurt him in the midst of Albert and his friendly dispositions, despite how much danger the two had encountered in their short time of knowing each other. It was so rare for somebody to smile so soft, so loving, and it was only the kind of thing Arthur had been graced with a couple of times before, yet whenever he saw Albert, it was dealt out kindly and carefree. 

Arthur tipped his head in greeting. “Mister Mason.”

Albert blinked and beamed eagerly, ducking his head in a weak attempt at hiding it. “Mister Morgan,” he replied. “Join me, would you?” He scooted over on the piano bench, well-worn from use, and patted the now empty spot beside him. 

Arthur produced his own, buried smile, and made his way over to Albert, his shoes clicking loudly and echoing off of the walls, mixing with the faraway sound of a waltz of some sort. Arthur could almost see the colorful twisting, swishing skirts of the women as they moved along with a man, their hands clasped together in loving excitement and practiced connection. 

Arthur awkwardly smoothed out his tailcoat as he sat tightly beside Albert, their shoulders pressed together warmly. He stared down at the polished ivory keys, spanning widely. “What’re you doing over here?” He quipped, smirking. “Hidin’ away from the rest of the guests?”

Albert wrung his hands together and stared down at the piano keys, laughing anxiously. “Something like that. They were all just, so…” he sighed and looked up at the high roof, and Arthur stared at him expectantly. “Why, they’re all so boring, Mister Morgan. It’s so much harder to make small talk and fake laugh once I’d experienced something more.”

“Somethin’ more?” Arthur pried, leering at Albert, none too subtly. Albert glimpsed at him, his eyes popping out dramatically against the stark white of his mask, and he suddenly turned his head away, breathing out slowly. He shifted in his spot and nodded.

“I’m afraid so,” he admitted. An empty silence, neither uncomfortable nor comforting, wedged its way between them, and Arthur was abruptly incredibly aware of the way Albert’s shoulder rubbed against his. Albert pinched his lips thinly, and glanced at Arthur, rubbing his hands together. “Say,” he prompted, “do you play an instrument, sir?” 

“Instrument?” Arthur repeated. The word didn’t exactly agree with his accent, sounding not nearly as elegant as when Albert had said it. He looked down at the piano and shook his head, scratching the back of his neck. “Naw, I never learned.” He put his hands down and rested them against his legs.

Albert frowned, his eyes squinting. “That’s rather a shame, I’d say,” he replied. “You’d be quite the pianist.”

And Arthur belly laughed at that, loud and surprised, the edges of his eyes crinkling merrily beneath the shaved wood of his mask. Albert tilted his head, gazing at him suspiciously. Arthur shook his head, sniffing, a smile left behind from his outburst. “You bein’ serious, Mister Mason?”

“Of course!” he responded, instantly, sounding almost offended. “It’s your hands, Arthur.” There it was, again. His name. Arthur could feel the blush crawling up his neck and was glad that the mask would hide any red that managed to flush his cheeks. 

Albert continued, putting his hand onto the piano for emphasis. “Yours are rather large, you see-- which is a good thing. You’d be able to play a few difficult pieces were you to learn.” He stretched his fingers out, wide, and played an octave, the notes drifting melodiously in the room, bouncing off of the walls in a guarded echo. Albert hummed pleasedly and turned to look at Arthur, only to find the outlaw watching him intently. He cleared his throat. 

“No, I don’t think so,” Arthur challenged, raising his own hand, calloused and dry, an austere difference from Albert’s soft and unscarred fingers. Arthur set his fingers against the piano keys tentatively. “They’re big, but my fingers ain’t exactly nimble. You a pianist?”

Albert hummed thoughtfully, gazing down at Arthurs fingers, pressed stiffly against the ivory without pressing the keys down. “I can play,” he answered simply, and reached out his hand, adjusting the way Arthur’s fingers were resting against the keys, the angle of his wrist. They were pressed together much more, Albert’s face bent right near Arthur, just out of reach. “My mother was a performer, so she insisted I learn.” Arthur followed Albert’s hands with his eyes, and took note of the way his touch lingered on Arthur’s knuckles. 

“See?” Albert whispered, and Arthur looked down at his hand suspiciously, disbelieving. It still was a very funny thought, to imagine himself as a musician, fancy tailcoat and all. To imagine himself performing in front of a crowd of men and women same as the ones who were mingling about just beyond their little cove of isolation.

Arthur shook his head, smiling shortly. “I think you’ve just about lost your mind, Mason,” he answered, softly. “My hands ain’t like yours.”

Albert scoffed incredulously, reaching out. “Nonsense,” he replied, and he grabbed ahold of Arthur’s hand, pulling it away from the piano, pressing their palms together. To his credit, their hands were rather similar in shape and size, though Albert’s fingers were a little longer and Arthur’s palm was a little wider. “Look,” he mumbled, “we’re nearly matching.” 

Arthur looked at Albert straight on, and for the first time, he properly noticed how close they were. “Well,” he breathed, “ain’t that somethin’.” 

Albert’s hand shifted unsurely against his, and slowly, carefully, Albert edged his fingers to interlock with Arthur’s. Testing the waters- he knew, all too well, the dangers of jumping in too quickly. Arthur closed his hand around Albert’s, and Albert squeezed gently. Arthur’s heart beat violently against his chest. He leaned in, tilting his head, and pressed his lips against Albert’s chastly, their masks clicking together.

It was hardly a kiss, just the press of lips, curious and tempting. Arthur didn’t stray far, his head still tilted slightly, studying Albert’s face, his gold-speckled eyes. Albert raised his other hand and pushed the mask up Arthur’s head, ruffling his hair, and pulled their interlocked hands closer to his chest. Arthur stared at him dumbly, and Albert, guiding and experimental, rested his hand on Arthur’s cheek, his fingertips playing through the recently cut strands of blonde hair behind Arthur’s ear. 

They were both still for a beat, and then Albert leaned in, lips parted, and they kissed properly. Arthur turned his head again, opening his mouth, as well, bringing up his other hand and cradling the back of Albert’s head. His brown hair was as soft as it felt, and Arthur played the strands through his fingers freely. 

They released each other’s hands, and Albert pressed both palms against either side of Arthur’s face, holding him in place with a firmly doting touch, his soft skin rubbing against Arthur’s clean shaven jaw in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Arthur kept his hand entangled with the hair and the back of Albert’s head and held his hip tightly in the other. 

Arthur felt absolutely at a loss. This was a bad idea, he knew, for both Albert and him, but he couldn’t seem to care about that in the slightest at this moment. All he felt was Albert’s hands, Albert’s lips; all he could think was that this was, most definitely, worth leaving camp for. Jobs and information and rich dumb folk be damned, this night was for the man right in front of him-- the proof of a reality, pressed so humanely against him.

When they finally parted, their lips were slick with spit and they were both near breathless. The endless cacophony of music drifted through the doorway, accompanied by the chatting and excitement of the main area. Albert stole another quick kiss, catching Arthur’s bottom lip in his teeth lightly, teasingly, before pulling back completely and staring at Arthur head on.

Arthur’s face was fully flushed, red and heated from his neck to the tips of his ears. He felt absolutely shameless, despite how silly he must’ve looked, without a hat or a mask to hide behind. Albert’s eyes were heavily lidded, and he brushed his thumb comfortingly on Arthur’s cheekbone. 

“You’re really somethin’, Mister Mason,” Arthur whispered, and Albert cracked a beaming grin, amused and joyous, closing his eyes.

“It’s Albert, Arthur.”

Arthur leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Albert’s cheek, landing a pure, affectionate kiss to his jawline. “Albert,” he repeated, breathily, and Albert shuddered as Arthur’s warm breath hit his neck.

“Arthur,” Albert mumbled, and Arthur hummed, near purred in response. “Would you like to come over? For… some coffee, sir,” he simpered, and Arthur grinned comically against his cheek. 

“Why, Mister Mason,” he feigned an overly polite demeanor, sounding and looking absolutely absurd with how much it contrasted against their intimate position, “I thought you’d never ask.”

**Author's Note:**

> maybe i'll add to this in the future


End file.
